Foig. Faash! fey, is dere brogue upon my faash too?
Arch. Upon my shalvation dere ish, joy,——But, Cussen Mackshane, vill you not put a remembrance upon me?
Foig. Mackshane! by St. Patrick, dat is my naam shure enough. [Aside.
Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it.
Foig. The devil hang you, joy——By fat acquaintance are you my cussen?
Arch. O, de devil hang your shelf, joy; you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens.
Foig. De devil taake de relation! Vel, joy, and fat school was it?
Arch. I think it vas—aay—'Twas Tipperary.
Foig. Now, upon my shoul, joy, it was Kilkenny.
Aim. That's enough for us—self confession—Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate.